


Heirloom

by woodland_elf



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Grey Wardens, Inquisition Companion Alistair, King Alistair, Not Canon Compliant, The Calling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 20:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodland_elf/pseuds/woodland_elf
Summary: The Calling does not discriminate between soldier and King.The Calling comes for every Grey Warden in Thedas. The world turns upside down, and King Alistair joins the Inquisition.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	Heirloom

**Author's Note:**

> Lora Surana made her lover King of Ferelden alongside Queen Anora Mac Tir. Then she made the Ultimate Sacrifice, and ended the Fifth Blight. 
> 
> Ten years later, King Alistair hears the Calling, and meets the Herald—another elven mage. 
> 
> I do not claim to own IP of Dragon Age or any of the characters mentioned in the story. Lora Surana and Ashante Lavellan are my OC's, but that's just about where the 'ownership' ends.
> 
> Un-beta'd. If you find any mistakes, well, that's life, baby!

_Maker, please let a new hole in the sky rip open and swallow me whole._

“I don’t see why we both have to go to Redcliffe,” Anora said, for the fifth time, from the seat across Alistair. Their nondescript carriage rattled down the old Imperial highway. Outside, Alistair could see shimmering blue glimpses of Lake Calenhad between treetops and rolling hills as they neared Redcliffe. 

It had been a _long_ journey from Denerim. Alistair and Anora usually made it a point to not spend more time together than was absolutely necessary.

“Teagan asked for help with the mages giving him trouble,” Alistair explained again, though he knew that wasn’t what Anora was asking for. “And, the Inquisition’s ambassador sent us that…odd letter.” It had come in the beak of a harried raven, requesting a large showing of support, just a week after Arl Teagan Guerrin’s strangely worded letter about _The mages you let rent my castle and their Tevinter friends_ or something or another.

“I don’t need to be here, at least,” Anora muttered, and turned her focus back onto the stack of letters in her lap.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. He sucked in a breath, held, and exhaled. At least the wheels of the carriage, rattling on the stones of the Imperial Highway, almost drowned out the singing in his head.

#

They’d given their marriage an honest try. After Lora made them joint rulers, and forbade Alistair from taking the killing blow with the Archdemon—

_Don’t think about it don’t think about it!_

—Alistair and Anora were married. They tried—really—to have heirs, but Anora never fell pregnant, and soon enough, the darkspawn taint in Alistair’s blood would have festered long enough that trying any longer was moot. Alistair was relieved he didn’t have to fuck Anora anymore, and he’s sure she was glad about that, too.

The nobles and their advisors were concerned about the future of the Ferelden royal line. Without a Theirin Heir, there was bound to be a civil war on Alistair and Anora’s eventual death.

They both took lovers, as needed. With discretion, of course. Though they didn’t particularly _like_ each other, they respected one another, and they were loyal to Ferelden. That’s all that mattered.

#

Alistair and Anora were honest to each other, through it all. They were husband and wife, king and queen, joint rulers of Ferelden.

But when Alistair started hearing the Calling, just less than a year ago—well, he kept that shit to himself.

He could feel it now, a nagging hum in the back of his brain. When he tried to contact the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, he got nothing more than an out-of-office reply from a non-Warden secretary. And, of course, Alistair couldn’t contact Weisshaput. He gave up his rights to Warden knowledge and secrets after he left to be King. But he still dreamt of darkspawn, still heard the Calling ten years after he Joined. He thought he was supposed to have another twenty — that’s what Duncan told him, anyway. Thirty years, if there was no Blight, if he was good, if he didn’t get involved.

But now he heard the Calling. And now, there was a glowing green hole in his sky, one of his villages was blown to pieces, and demons roamed the countryside while the world seemed to turn upside down.

Now, Tevinters had made themselves welcome in Redcliffe Castle, and the new Inquisition decided he had to do something about it.

He didn’t know why he insisted so hard that Anora come with him. He could handle it on his own, but Alistair…

He didn’t have a plan, but he had an idea. A feeling. Like he had all those years ago, when Duncan had shown up at the Chantry barracks and conscripted him for the Wardens, Alistair felt as though he was standing on the precipice of change. Everything was about to shift. So, Alistair wanted Anora to be there, either to hold him back or push him off.

#

They had arrived just in time.

Alistair and Anora had barely dismounted from the carriage when their Royal Guard escort ran into Inquisition soldiers milling around the entrance to Redcliffe Castle. Blood splatters littered the front portcullis.

“This doesn’t look good,” Alistair remarked.

Anora flashed him an annoyed glance.

Entering the castle, Alistair was amazed in how little it had changed since he’d been there last. Sure, now there were some dead Tevinters here and there, but the overall mood of the place was the same: ancient stone, huge drapes, dark red carpet to hide the bloodstains. He’d have to talk to Teagan about redecorating.

The Royal Guard and the Inquisition met in the Great Hall. Alistair fixed his gloves while they walked, Anora flashing a disapproving glance back at him every now and then, and he tried to walk straight. Every corner of his vision was filled with memories of this place. _That’s where Eamon stood. That’s where Lora and I would go to our shared chamber, the night before we departed for Denerim…_

_Don’t think about it don’t think about it!_

He walked into the Great Hall, his chin held high, and addressed the Inquisition emissaries gathered there. “Well, now, what sort of mess have we found ourselves in?”

Five faces, from where they argued with each other, turned to gawk at him. One, he recognized: Grand Enchanter Fiona, who Alistair knew led the rebel mages. He and Teagan had allowed them to stay at Redcliffe for the Conclave. Alistair had never met the Grand Enchanter, but Teagan had sent along her description, and a summary of the mages she led. Teagan had vouched for her; evidently, Alistair’s not-uncle had put his faith in the wrong people.

The other four, Alistair did not know. He glanced at Anora, but she gave no sign of recognition. The four were dressed in varying levels of armor, and two were bearing mage staffs. One was a tall man with a moustache. The other was a short, dark-skinned Dalish elf. Her hair had been shorn right to her scalp and was starting to grow back in tight black curls. Though she looked nothing like Lora, there was something about the way the elf woman carried herself that sent Alistair ten years back.

It was the elf who addressed him first. “Only the good kind, ser.”

The Grand Enchanter immediately bowed, eyes cast downward. “My apologies, King Alistair—” the words seemed caught on her tongue, and Alistair could hear her suck in a breath. “Queen Anora. It is all my fault. We—”

“Are outstaying your welcome,” Anora replied coldly. Alistair was shocked at the tone his wife used, but he couldn’t disagree. They had taken a significant risk, sheltering the rebel mages at Redcliffe, like they had. Ousting Teagan, causing trouble? Fiona had broken their royal trust.

The elf mage with the Inquisition spoke up. “It wasn’t her fault. It’s a long story, but everything’s taken care of now.” She gestured behind herself, and Alistair saw Inquisition soldiers pinning down an older gentleman in Tevinter robes. “Thanks for showing up though.”

Alistair felt the intended slight—they’d come as fast as they could, hadn’t they? “Who are you?” he asked, coldly.

The elf woman frowned at him. “My name is Ashante Lavellan—”

“This is the _Herald_ of _Andraste,”_ remarked a human woman from behind Lavellan. Alistair peered around the elf, and recognized Seeker Pentaghast. She had come to Denerim a year ago to ask him for aid with her Inquisition, and he and Anora had rebuked her. “She stopped the Breach from expanding, your majesties—"

“That’s enough,” Anora held up her hand.

Alistair, gritting his teeth, turned to the Grand Enchanter. “You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden.”

The Grand Enchanter balked at him. “But—where will we go—”

Lavellan, the Herald or whatever the Seeker had called her, stepped forward. “With us. We came here for mages to seal the Breach. I’d like to invite you to be our allies.”

Anora frowned. “You ought to take that offer, Grand Enchanter. One way or another, you’re leaving Redcliffe. Tonight.”

Alistair might have missed the sad, forlorn expression that crossed the Grand Enchanter’s face, had he not been looking directly at her. Tegan had trusted her so much. Alistair couldn’t help but regret how the arrangement turned out.

“Come,” Lavellan extended a hand to the Grand Enchanter, “the Inquisition will help prepare the mages for travel.”

Alistair stood by Anora’s side as they watched the Inquisition leave with the rebel mages. As soon as the doors shut, Anora’s shoulders slumped.

“Now that that’s over with,” she sighed, “we might as well set ourselves up for the next couple weeks, oversee the transfer of the castle. Teagan will need help getting back, and getting things in order. Not to mention, making sure those blighted mages stay out of Redcliffe once and for all…”

“Yes, quite,” Alistair murmured, but was distracted. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Anora noticed. “Another headache? Go rest, Alistair.” She picked her way out of the Great Hall.

Alistair stood there in the Great Hall for a few moments, pondering. Thinking.

#

Alistair stayed up late that night. He had no books for research, so he took parchment and wrote down everything he could remember of the Wardens, the Calling, and the Joining. He tried to connect the dots between when the Wardens all but vanished from Ferelden to the tragedy at the Conclave to the forming of the Inquisition.

Lavellan, or the Herald, was the Inquisition’s leader, at least in the interim. Alistair would be lying if he didn’t have a vested interest in the closure of the Breach, considering it sat at the edge of his kingdom, had destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and killed several of his subjects. Alistair had sent soldiers and spies alike to the Inquisition, but never an advisor.

There was that feeling again. That feeling of standing on the edge, the thing that made him drag Anora along to Redcliffe. He’d needed his royal counterpart to help him make a choice, hadn’t he?

In the hours before sunrise, Alistair found himself knocking at the door to Anora’s chamber. The maid answered, and let him in. He waited in the receiving room while the maid woke Anora.

She came out, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. Dressed down like this, with her pale hair falling in curtains, Anora seemed so…small. Alistair was used to the Anora that was larger than life, a queen in every sense of the word.

“What is it?” she asked, a worried note to her voice.

He had a hard time finding the words. “I think I’m going to do something very stupid, and I need you to be on board with it.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to say—”

“If you think it’s stupid, then it’s very stupid, Alistair. But alright, come out with it, then.”

He scrubbed his hands through his beard. Maker, it was getting long, wasn’t it? His hair, too. Lora wouldn’t recognize him now.

“I’m going to stay.”

Anora cocked her head to the side. “In Redcliffe?”

“No, I meant with the Inquisition. Well, not stay, but I’ll join them.”

Anora laughed. She snorted, shaking her head. “Okay, you were right. This is stupid.”

“Hear me out—”

“You do realize you are the King of Ferelden, right? And that for the past ten years, our advisors have been shitting their pants because there is no Theirin heir? Imagine what they’ll say when I tell them their King has gone and gotten himself killed fighting demons for a group of heretics.”

“Won’t that be perfect for you, then?” Alistair frowned, “if I die, you get to rule on your own, marry your own Prince Consort, have un-tainted babies and the like. It’s a win-win situation.”

Anora scowled. “I don’t want you _dead,_ Alistair. What is this really about?”

He paused. He wasn’t sure that he should tell her this…but she deserved to know.

“I can hear it,” he said quietly.

“Hear what?”

“The song. The endless song, the one all Grey Wardens eventually hear, if they live long enough,” Alistair said. “I’ve been hearing it for some time. It was quieter, before, but now I’m worried. If I can hear the Calling, Anora, my time here isn’t for long. I want to know why this is happening. And I feel…”

“You feel that the Inquisition will help you find the answers you seek,” Anora finished for him. Alistair nodded, and ducked his head, closing his eyes.

Warm, soft hands slipped into his. Alistair looked up, shocked. He couldn’t remember the last time Anora had touched him, much less with…tenderness.

“If this is what you must do, I understand,” she said. “But it will not look good for Ferelden that its King has abandoned it for the Inquisition.”

“So, we don’t tell them.”

#

The air had grown frigid by the time Alistair had rode on horseback to the Crossroads Trading Post, deep in the hinterlands below the Frostbacks. This was where the Inquisition had set up its efforts in Western Ferelden, his reports had said. Night was falling, and Alistair wanted to be off the roads by then. He knew what happened to lone travelers on these wilderness roads at night.

His face itched, and Alistair tried not to scratch where he had shaved. Anora had suggested a more dramatic disguise than he’d originally concocted. He silently mourned his beard, and twitched his lips, feeling the moustache he’d carefully groomed into existence.

The facial hair wasn’t all, though. Anora had taken too much delight in dictating just how much Alistair’s visage would change. _I’ve always wanted to try doing this myself, you know,_ she’d said.

_What, growing a moustache?_

_Pretending to be someone completely opposite from what I am._

She dyed his hair jet black. In the past few years, he’d been tying it up out of his face, but now his hair hung in thick waves over his shoulders. That one small change — from strawberry blond to black — had made Alistair feel the most different. He didn’t recognize himself in the mirror.

He’d packed a longsword and a sturdy Ferelden shield from Redcliffe Castle’s stores, and Anora dressed him in a manner she said would accentuate a sense of being a ‘vagabond’ as she called it. Quality, if not piecemeal, armor, and a Ferelden cloak.

Anora wouldn’t let him leave without his reading glasses. They were a new invention, something Alistair hadn’t heard of until the court physician explained why reading was making his eyes ache, and how to fix it. The tempered lenses were of a new dwarven make. While they were odd-looking, they did help Alistair to read without eye strain.

As he slowly rode out from Redcliffe, leaving his wife and his crown behind, Alistair wondered on how eagerly, and tenderly, Anora had helped him with his plan.

_She just wants me gone so she can finally rule alone._

_No,_ he argued with himself, _we are friends, after all these years. She just wants me to be safe._

Alistair rode into the Inquisition camp at dusk. A soldier stopped him and ordered him to dismount.

“I have orders, ser,” Alistair told the soldier, passing over a scroll, sealed with wax. “From the King and Queen.”

The soldier looked at the seal, and eyed Alistair suspiciously. “Wait here.”

Alistair breathed, patting the horse’s flank. He was…surprised, really, with himself. Travel, lying, navigating on his own…it was all coming back to him.

_But I was never on my own before. I always had the others — and first, I had her._

Lora’s sweet face suddenly emerged, and Alistair had to squeeze his eyes shut to shoo away the vision.

“Ser?”

Alistair perked up, and the soldier was back, a dwarf in tow.

“Scout Harding, at your service,” she said. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Duncan Gold, serah. Have you read my orders?” he pointed to the scroll in Scout Harding’s hand.

She nodded. “The seals and signatures are correct, but I’m curious. I have never heard of you, or that King Alistair had a Champion.”

That was another one of Anora’s ideas, that would work out brilliantly, of course. Anora alway had a thousand sly ideas up her sleeve, ready to deploy when the circumstances arose.

Alistair gave a charismatic smile. “Well, you see, they try to keep me a bit of a secret. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if everyone knew who I was. Being the King’s anonymous Champion, I have a certain freedom of movement.”

“I see,” Scout Harding said, and peered him over once more, in the light of the bonfire by the soldier’s post. “Come, then. The men will see to your horse. I’ll bring you to the Herald.”

As they walked, Alistair glanced around. _What am I getting myself into?_ When he and Lora had traipsed around Ferelden during the Blight, they had less than the Inquisition did now. But they were just two people; this was an entire multinational organization with its talons slowly digging into every region in southern Thedas. And it still looked like a bunch of rebels, scraping what they had together to make it work.

It takes money to outfit an army. There was some Inquisition heraldry on a every uniform, on the tents and equipment here and there, but mostly Alistair saw patchwork arms and armor. Things that folks brought from home and repurposed, determined to use it until it broke.

Alistair was painfully reminded of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden a decade ago. Not a lot of money, not a lot of influence…but a great amount of pride, and dedication.

A few refugees, upset from their homes by the mage-templar conflict, sat around the Inquisition’s fires. Would they join her ranks, Alistair wondered, or move onward to some other Ferelden city?

He saw plenty of mages from Redcliffe as well. They, Alistair knew, would not be returning to Ferelden.

Scout Harding led him towards a campfire, encircled by the same people he met at the castle the other day. Lavellan and the Seeker were sitting close, talking over steaming mugs of what smelled like hot wine. The other mage from the castle was cleaning his bloodstained coat in a bucket of water, and Alistair caught him muttering several non-Common curses.

“Herald,” Scout Harding said, announcing her presence. Lavellan looked up, her large eyes shining green and orange in the firelight.

‘What’s all this?” she asked, and the others around her took notice.

Scout Harding passed the scroll of papers to the Seeker, who passed them to the Herald. Lavellan unrolled the papers. Alistair held his breath while she scanned them.

“King Alistair sends his personal knight and champion to serve the Inquisition?” Lavellan raised an eyebrow, throwing an incredulous glance. “I thought for sure that his royal highness wanted nothing to do with us.”

Alistair swallowed, mustering confidence into his voice. “His majesty regrets the way things turned out in Redcliffe. He sent me to offer my aid, wherever it is most needed.”

Lavellan’s face was unreadable as she turned back to the papers. She pursed her lips. “Alright, then, Ser Duncan Gold.”

“I—alright then?”

Lavellan nodded. She stood up and walked around the fire towards him and extended her hand. “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

#

The song swam through his mind, whispering sweetly and sorrowfully. _Your time is near._

Alistair’s back ached. He stretched in his bedroll, yawning into the cold frigid air within his tent. He kept his eyes squeezed shut against the light, and as he yawned, his ears started to become aware of his surroundings.

There was someone in his tent.

He had a dagger in his fist faster than he could open his eyes. He sat up, his other hand closing around the throat of the intruder—

“Good morning,” Lavellan smirked, blithely unperturbed by the knife at her chin.

Alistair dropped the knife, let go of her throat, and sighed. “ _What_ are you doing,” he groaned, scrubbing a palm over his face.

“You sleep like the dead, Ser Duncan. We’re packing up camp.” Lavellan twitched her nose at him. “You know, you hum in your sleep? It was an odd little tune.”

“I wouldn’t know, being asleep and all,” he griped, and looked for his glasses. He’d stashed them somewhere last night, after setting up his tent in the bleary wee hours of the night. Varric and Dorian—as the other Tevinter mage, who wasn’t with the other Tevinter mages, from the castle was named—knew how to keep a man drinking and talking. _A jovial sort of interrogation. I’m not that easily tricked anymore._

He found his glasses in his helmet and pushed them over his ears and up his nose. Lavellan gave him an odd look. “What?”

“Nothing,” she shrugged, “you’re just odd.”

“You’re one to talk. Are you done visiting, or can I get prepared in peace?” he griped. He really meant to be nicer to the Herald of Andraste, but Alistair was nursing a hangover, and it was _early_. And he’d slept on the ground last night. He hadn’t had to sleep on the ground in a decade. Being King had made him used to certain standards. He'd have to get used to living like this again.

Lavellan grinned at him, a big toothy smile that made Alistair pause to take her in. Her facial tattoos were pretty, indeed; gold lines across her cheeks that framed the underside of her eyes. Lavellan wasn’t young, but she was far from old. Alistair thought they might have been of an age together. “How old are you?” he found himself asking.

He’d surprised her. “Uh, thirty-five this summer, Ser. And yourself?”

“Thirty-two. You look good,” he mused. He didn’t miss the flush creep up her face. “Can I assist with anything else, Herald?”

She shook her head and crawled back out the front of the tent. “Uh, no, that was it. We'll be off soon, remember to fetch your horse.”

As soon as she was gone, Alistair took a long breath in. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he was far in over his head, that was for sure.

He just had to stay close to the head of the Inquisition, learn as much as he could about the Wardens—for surely, an organization of this size and influence would have connections—and see what he could find out about his early Calling. 

He dressed and armed himself, rolled up his bedroll and meager belongings, and set off to the paddock to collect his horse.

Behind him in the valley, the rebel mages were breaking their camps. Over on the rise, Alistair could see Lavellan with Varric, Dorian, and Cassandra, talking closely. When Lavellan spotted him, she smiled, and waved. Alistair returned the favor.

He had stood on the precipice. With Anora’s blessing, he took the leap. Now, he just had to make sure he didn’t fall in too deep.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my other fic, you'd notice that my Warden and Inquisitor are...different. 
> 
> I have two "universes" in my DA playthroughs; my main one (generally Lawful Good), with warrior Florence Cousland, mage Marian Hawke, and mage Astoria Lavellan; and my second (Generally darker, with more blood magic) with mage Lora Surana, mage Marian Hawke (again, yes, she's my fave), and mage Ashante Lavellan. Yes, I'm a big fan of mages. 
> 
> This came to me as I was creating my world for Lora; whether she would place Alistair on the throne, or he would stay with the Wardens. She always makes the Ultimate Sacrifice, rather than let Morrigan have Alistair's child in a dark ritual. 
> 
> My canon INCLUDES the novelizations, but IGNORES the comics (since I haven't read them) and the comics aren't compliant with other aspects of my games' canon.


End file.
